


I thought you were dead

by Dimlitidiot



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Belly Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eventual Smut, Gray-Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Kink Discovery, M/M, Pining, Porn With Plot, Second Person, Slow Burn, Weight Gain, feedee, jon and gerry love each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dimlitidiot/pseuds/Dimlitidiot
Summary: “'Gerry,' you reply dumbly, taken by surprise. You haven’t seen Gerry Keay in over 10 years, even before Gertrude died and made you head archivist. You shake your head a little and try to clamp shut your jaw that had popped open in shock. You thought… well, you thought Gerry was dead.Not only is Gerry not dead, but he seems very much alive. His cheeks are a little red from the icy air drifting through Chelsea, and they dimple as he smiles tauntingly at your discomfort."This fic contains feedism/belly kink, don't like don't read!! (also contains plot, angst, and fluff)Jon always had a crush on Gerry when they were working together in the archives under Gertrude. And then Gerry died. Jon became the Archivist, and moved on with his life. Then Gerry shows up on Jon's way home from work, and all of his feelings come rushing back. Gerry looks happier... and rounder.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Gerard Keay, jon sims/gerry keay
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You run into an old friend.

“Jon?” someone interrupts your quiet and depressing ride home from work on the tube. It’s Friday and you’re  _ more _ than ready to be at home, taking a drink of any kind of alcohol and smoking a blasted cigarette. You look up toward the voice and feel like you’re looking at a ghost. His long black hair is just as dark as always, and his eyes are ringed in the remnants of day old eyeliner and mascara--maybe a little less eyeliner than you remember, but it’s present nonetheless.

“Gerry,” you reply dumbly, taken by surprise. You haven’t seen Gerry Keay in over 10 years, even before Gertrude died and made you head archivist. You shake your head a little and try to clamp shut your jaw that had popped open in shock. You thought… well, you thought Gerry was dead. 

Not only is Gerry not dead, but he seems very much  _ alive. _ His cheeks are a little red from the icy air drifting through Chelsea, and they dimple as he smiles tauntingly at your discomfort. 

And… Gerry Keay is quite a bit  _ larger _ than he was 10 years ago. You recognize the same long, black, leather jacket that he always wore when outside of the archives--and usually inside--except it’s now quite a bit more filled out than you remember. Most noticeably, the sides part far around his round stomach. You blush and make an extremely ugly, awkward grimace that only makes Gerry’s smile grow. The way he’s smiling… you hardly remember him being this happy once when you worked together. 

“I-- It’s good to see you,” you stammer. You clutch anxiously at your bookbag that suddenly feels heavy across your chest. He looks quizzically at you for just a moment before pulling a cigarette out and shoving it between his lips. He holds one out to you. His hands are big. The tattooed eyes that cover his knuckles are achingly familiar. You feel the warmth his fingers radiate when you reach your hands out near them. You take the cigarette hesitantly between your forefinger and thumb, holding it like it’s going to hurt you somehow. 

The train comes to a stop and the doors slide open in front of you. 

“This is your stop, yeah?” Gerry says, stepping out into the cold air and shoving his hands into his pockets. His unlit cigarette dangles sadly in his mouth, waiting to be lit.  
You look around and realize that this is in fact your stop, and you might have missed it if Gerry hadn’t prompted you to step off. Granted, you would have only missed it in the first place because he was the one distracting you. _Really_ distracting you. 

A moment later, you’re both walking silently down the street, smoking and huddling against the cold. You both use your cigarettes as excuses not to talk to each other. Maybe you especially. 

“So,” he starts, letting the word hang in the air like you might start babbling, like you always used to do. 

“So,” you echo, feeling shy and stupid and traumatized. 

You’re trying really hard not to look at him, but you are honestly completely failing. You are transported back to when you were still in your 20’s and totally infatuated with the tall, grumpily endearing goth. He’s not the same skinny little kid that he used to be, though. He was always tall, but now he’s wide too, and his arms and legs and cheeks round with a softness that makes your heart race. Just like when you were young, you vividly picture folding your body into a small shape and sinking into his arms. Now your daydreams are enhanced, thinking about how much better it would feel sinking into someone a bit more  _ plush _ .

“You know I can see you staring, right?” Gerry asks. You blush yet again, ashamed to be gawking. You hope he doesn’t think that you were staring because you were shocked in a bad way. Because it’s definitely a good shock. 

“I thought you were dead,” you spit out finally, like it was burning your tongue. 

He pointedly ignores you, saying, “I know I might look a little different nowadays, but I thought your granny might have taught you how to be polite.” This leads you to blush again, but partly in anger this time. You’re filled with angry embarrassment, a specific emotion that Gerry seems  _ particularly _ good at stirring up in you. And it makes you unbelievably, stupidly turned on, your body digging up feelings you had kept solidly buried for the better part of a decade. 

Despite the fact that you actually might be feeling good about the return of your friend, you scowl at the ground, hiding your enthusiasm with anxiety and antisocialness, like you normally do. You almost want to pretend to be light and cheery like Gerry seems to be. He looks like he’s happier than you ever knew him, and you wish you felt like that--not like the same dumb kid you always were, but older and pre-arthritic now. You force out a laugh that sounds fake, but it does make you feel the smallest bit lighter. It makes Gerry smile a little, his lips curving around his cigarette. Gerry’s smile makes you feel good in a way you didn’t know you were missing. 

It almost makes it seem like a decade was nothing, and you’re both young, stubborn idiots, heading home together after work, preparing to head out tomorrow on an early morning mission. At the time, it had always just made sense for you to spend the night together beforehand...

Before you spend nearly enough time with this ghost of a friend, you are standing in front of your small home, facing each other in anticipation of goodbye. Was it weird of you to be so reminiscently attached to him that you don’t want him to leave? 

“Do you-- Um, do you have some place to stay?” you ask, holding your breath anxiously.

Gerry grins in a way that mocks you to your very core. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m going to stay with you, Archivist.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry cooks breakfast for you.
> 
> "You stand awkwardly in the corner of your small kitchen area, watching Gerry as he begins to work. Every move he makes is so… domestic. He looks calm, and happy, and experienced. Your old insecurities of being inept compared to Gerry threaten to bite at you, but you decide that it’s actually kind of pleasant, knowing someone else is competent enough to take care of it for you."

When you wake up, it’s quiet. It’s normally quiet in the morning, when you wake up alone. You’ve grown comfortable that way. You think that maybe what happened last night was a dream. You couldn’t have actually run into your former-coworker and crush after thinking he was dead for 10 years. And for a few minutes, it was actually a bit of a relief to believe that Gerry hadn’t really popped back into your life. 

The truth is solidified by a thin, black tube of eyeliner. It lays haphazardly on your bathroom counter. You look at the unsuspecting tube. It certainly was not yours, you knew that. So… you guess Gerry really was here. You strain your ears for the sound of walking, rustling, breathing. But it’s  _ completely _ quiet. You entertain the idea that maybe a ghost came through and all he left was a bit of eye makeup. 

You run the bathroom sink and stare at yourself in the mirror. You try--and fail--to calm yourself down. You splash your face and huff, upset by the numerous emotions you are being forced to feel currently. Why did every part of your brain and body have to light itself on fire again the moment you remembered the goth you used to have a crush on?

Your hand brushes the eyeliner absently. The physical contact makes you feel fuzzy. You pick up the tube and study it surreptitiously before you slip off the lid. It’s a waxy, rounded black crayon, and you twist the bottom to prompt more to slide out of the top. You picture Gerry’s big hands twisting it, delicately applying the makeup to his deep, brown eyes… 

The front door bangs open noisily, breaking you out of your imaginings. You quickly replace the eyeliner, feeling guilty and exposed. You hear the distinctive sound of plastic grocery bags rustling and what seems to be Gerry cursing quietly. 

You stroll casually out of the bathroom as if you weren’t just brooding over him a moment ago. You’re cool. You’re not sad, depressing, lonely, boring Jon, you’re someone that maybe Gerry might like to hang around with. 

“You’re up early,” you say, an attempt at light conversation that sounds fake coming out of your mouth.

“Well,” Gerry begins while he unloads food items from the grocery bags. “I woke up starving and you have literally  _ no _ food in your house. What do you even eat?”

You blush, fully aware of the abysmal state of your refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. “I… don’t really cook for myself very much.”

Gerry looks at you for a second and then shakes his head, a mocking smirk on his face. “Well, I guess that explains why you look like you’ve been flattened by a steam roller. Do you even eat vegetables?”

“Of course!” you cut back sharply. Gerry grins and you know that he was trying to get you to snap at him. 

“Well, at least while I’m here, you won’t be going hungry,” he says in a holy tone. He pulls a carton of eggs out of the last bag and begins to rummage through one of your small cupboards, miraculously procuring a small frying pan. “Now, how do you like your eggs?”

“Um...” you pause nervously, convinced that there might be a right and wrong answer. “Fried?”

You stand awkwardly in the corner of your small kitchen area, watching Gerry as he begins to work. Every move he makes is so… domestic. He looks calm, and happy, and  _ experienced _ . Your old insecurities of being inept compared to Gerry threaten to bite at you, but you decide that it’s actually kind of pleasant, knowing someone else is competent enough to take care of it for you. 

You watch each item that Gerry holds in his hands. He deftly knocks an egg against the counter, then gently places the tips of his thumbs inside the crack to pry the shell open, releasing the egg into the hot pan. He touches pieces of your kitchen, putting his fingerprints on the cool tiles where only yours are. He turns the knobs on the stove, he shakes your salt and pepper shakers, he rummages through your drawers in search of utensils. He looks so…  _ at home. _ He might even look more at home in your space than you do most of the time. 

You can’t help looking at the rest of Gerry, too. He’s wearing the same outfit he had on when he bombarded you on the tube last night. You can’t stop looking at the unmistakable stretch of his clothing over his plump form. You’re just so surprised by the way his clothes pull to accommodate his girth, something that had increased considerably after 10 years of… not being dead somewhere. And his jacket--you see his broad shoulders pull the fabric taught when he turns his back to you, filling out the leather more than you ever saw it when he worked at the Archives. 

You ponder the life that Gerry lived--the life that led him to be in your kitchen frying eggs now. Your head is filled with unanswered questions. You want to press Gerry for the answers, but you’re afraid to break the small bubble of unquestioned joy that was brought by your reunion. Especially when he was so quick to deflect your comment last night. 

“Here you go,” Gerry says, pulling your attention away from your thoughts. He hands you a simple meal of eggs and toast, served on your own chipped ceramic plate. You have to say it looks particularly delicious, mostly because you rarely have a desire to eat breakfast most days, let alone cook it. 

“Thank you,” you say, slightly ashamed of your lack of hospitality toward your guest. Your grandmother would be ashamed. 

Gerry clears his throat. “Yeah, well, you look like you could use a home-cooked meal,” he says, more softly. He looks away from you, and you swear he’s hiding a soft blush. 

“You’re not wrong,” you say. You sit down at the tiny kitchen table in the corner and then you begin to eat your meal. You  _ know _ it’s corny, and it really is just eggs and toast, but it’s  _ delicious, _ and you swear the only thing you can taste is love. 

You crack a big, involuntary smile. Gerry catches your eye, and you think that he’s going to mock you, but he just smiles back smugly and begins cracking eggs into one of your cereal bowls. You contentedly eat your breakfast and resume your equally pleasant activity of staring at Gerry Keay. 

“You know,” you begin between mouthfuls of food. “Back when I used to know you, I didn’t really peg you for a culinary genius.”

Gerry laughs, one short and sharp chuckle. “People change.” He says. “And I don’t know if I would go so far as to say genius. I just do it because it feels good.” 

He cracks four eggs into the bowl, which is double the amount that he fed you. You also notice him doubling the number of bread slices he slips into your toaster. You don’t know why, but this makes you  _ squirm _ in your seat. You think about how your small frame only ever needs the barest bits of food to function--or at least, that’s all you usually give it. Gerry, on the other hand, is large, sturdy, and clearly capable of much larger feats of physical strength than you. He also apparently needs to  _ eat a lot.  _

By the time Gerry finishes cooking his own meal and joins you at your tiny dining room table, you have already finished eating. This means that you have nothing to distract you from staring at Gerry while he eats. 

You’d tried to write off the funny feeling from when you saw him preparing a large amount of food for himself, but now that he’s actually  _ eating _ the large amount of food, the burn in your belly is much more pronounced, and you identify it as a feeling of arousal. Considering you don’t feel aroused particularly often, this feels significant, confusing, and also moderately embarrassing.

The feeling only grows as Gerry eats more of his breakfast. He doesn’t talk to you while he eats, he just methodically scoops eggs and toast into his mouth. You’re weirdly fixated on how he does this. The way his wide lips part to let his fork and food slip past them. How, when he chews, his gently rounded cheeks and chin move in time with his jaw, jiggling ever so slightly. 

You feel so satisfied, sitting with your pleasantly full belly, watching Gerry eat his fill. The quiet intimacy of your simple, shared meal is a moment that etches onto your mind. You know your kitchen is now irrevocably marked with the recollection, and you know you’ll look back on this feeling once you return to your regular lonely mornings. You keep feeling preemptively sad for the loss you know you’ll face when Gerry leaves you alone again.

You have the sentimental idea that _ you  _ want to be the one who cooks for Gerry, who makes him feel as safe and taken care of as he’s made you feel. You just wish you felt as confident as him doing it.

You keep forgetting that even when Gerry isn’t looking at you, he still knows you’re looking at him. Since he hasn't said anything, you guess he doesn’t have a problem with you watching him eat. 

As if to oppose your thought, Gerry suddenly looks up at you, his mouth still working through a large bite of scrambled-egg-heaped toast. He looks like he knew he’d meet your gaze when he looked up. He must have felt your eyes on him. His face is slightly flushed, and you can’t pinpoint what emotion you think he’s feeling. 

“Why are you watching me, Jon?” Your name on Gerry’s lips makes you shiver. He sounds annoyed, but not really. 

“I--um--I just can’t believe you’re actually here. And--that you cooked me breakfast?” you say, laughing nervously through your discomfort. 

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to return the favor sometime, then,” Gerry says, smiling devilishly. 

“You mean--me  _ cooking _ ? I don’t--that’s not really going to end up resulting in a positive outcome.”

“Well, I could always help you. Or, you could just take me out somewhere.” Gerry levels an unwavering look at you. He somehow manages to sound charming and confrontational at the same time. You move your mouth like a gulping fish and utter some ridiculous sounds.

“I--of course, Gerry. I’ll do anything you want.”

Gerry smiles hugely at you and then abruptly stands. He grabs your plate and his now empty one and dumps them in the sink before quickly walking to the front door. 

“Great,” Gerry says, his small torn black backpack he came with in one hand and the doorknob in the other. “I have some...  _ business to _ take care of. I’ll see you at dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!! Please leave kudos and comments to encourage me to write more!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You attempt to cook dinner for Gerry.  
> "You smile softly at the way he anticipates your actions. A warmth flushes in your chest, but this time it is a gentle, happy kind of warmth, not a fiery, fussy one. You wonder when Gerry learned how to take care of someone so well.  
> 'Don’t cut these too big, okay?' he says, hovering close behind your back. 'I want them to cook fast. I’m starving.'  
> Your stomach does a little flip at the way he emphasizes the word 'starving', like he was desperate for it. You file the feeling away in the back of your mind so you can process it later."

Gerry left shortly after flustering you at breakfast for what he proclaimed as “business”. You didn’t feel like prying, mostly because Gerry didn't seem keen on telling you what it was about in the first place. You’re sensitive to rejection, and you know you should try to get more information out of Gerry, but you feel put out by the idea that he would refuse to acknowledge your questions. 

You’ve been flitting around the house all day, nervous and restless. You originally planned on having a long day to yourself, perhaps reading a novel or partaking in some more indulgent television documentaries. But now, you can’t stop thinking about Gerry, and how he’s going to come back to your house tonight, and he’s going to talk to you again, and he’s probably going to look like that again, and you’re sure he’s going to eat again. 

You look into the fridge, curious what Gerry thought were appropriate items to purchase to store a home. He bought a lot more than you originally thought, and it makes your fridge look more lively than it usually ever did. You try to think of the last time your kitchen held such a variety of items, but the most recent instance you can remember is having Georgie over to visit several years ago. Echoing your current situation, you had found yourself of embarrassingly little use in the kitchen compared to her learned skill. 

You take stock of the refrigerated items. There’s some more eggs, raw chicken, milk, butter, and quite a few kinds of vegetables. You blush when you realize he’s thrown out your old milk that had curdled long ago but hadn’t had the will to throw away yourself. The slimy feeling of self-judgment that’s been threatening you since you reunited with Gerry curls queasily in your stomach.

When you move to the pantry, you see it has been filled with pasta, rice, and beans in bags, and a few new seasoning bottles. You sniff the one labeled chili powder and it makes your nose itch, but you smile, remembering long ago late nights playing board games at Melanie’s house with… everyone you used to be friends with. 

You also see that there are a variety of processed snack foods packaged in bright boxes on the shelf, most of which you recognize as brand names you would have never been able to get your hands on as a kid. Maybe you had eaten the generic version of one of them a long time ago, but you were suddenly curious about what each of the mystifying treats might taste like now. 

After studying the new contents of your excessively small kitchen, the nervousness of your impending semi-date returns with full force. You already considered taking Gerry out to eat in order to avoid the daunting task of cooking a meal for him. Unfortunately, the thought of willingly going out to a public location to be surrounded by many, many people sounded like a lesser form of torture to you. You picture your lengthy limbs screwed up tight at the greasy restaurant table, feeling completely on edge, while Gerry pokes fun at you for your lack of enthusiasm. The thought makes you shudder, and you firmly decide against the possibility. 

Although you like to act very dramatic about your lack of cooking skills, it’s not like you’re completely incompetent. You’re an adult human and you’ve had to make dinner quite a few times in your life. You’re just not sure that staples of yours such as TV dinners and baked potatoes are glamorous enough to serve your crush. You want to do better for Gerry, but the only home cooked meals you can think of are your grandma’s stuffy casseroles and hard baked bread. 

Upon deeper reflection, your mind comes up with one more recipe, and you cringe in response. You used to be relatively good at cooking it, but the memories tied to it taste bitter and heavy as they slide down your tightened throat. 

You sigh and know you have to ride on the small knowledge you have to impress Gerry. You just won’t think about the other times you’ve made it before. Just the time right now, with a cute boy coming back to your house tonight who you desperately want to seem competent in front of. 

When Gerry arrives home just after dark, he finds you chopping onions miserably in the kitchen. Sure, maybe you know how to cook this dish, but that doesn’t mean the tedious activities aren’t maddeningly long in your unskilled hands. You hear Gerry chuckle lowly as he approaches you, and it rackets up your frustration to the next level. 

“Gosh, Jon. You’re so tense,” Gerry says, sliding up to where you’re standing at the counter. His presence looms over you. He gestures to where your hand strains to hold your dull kitchen knife. “You look like you’re about ready to stab someone.”

He reaches out and casually runs his fingertips against yours. His fingers are long and blunted with his wide nail beds trimmed close to the skin and coated in chipped black nail polish. You have a fuzzy recollection of past you watching him peel his nails down to the nub in moments of anxiety. 

The combination of physical contact and unprompted memory makes you tense up even more. Your hand goes so tight that you drop the knife with an unpleasant clatter. You huff and pull your arm back to your body. You feel frazzled and raw and stupid. Just yesterday you were living your normal life as an obsessive, lonely archivist, and today you’re forced to think about every person who’s no longer in your life, including Martin! You’re sure that Gerry sees the way your body begins to shake.

Gerry, ever the ignorer of bad emotions, deftly ties his hair into a ponytail behind his head and steps into your workspace at the cutting board. He begins chopping the onion with ease. You feel yourself calm down slightly at the repetitive and calm nature of his movements. 

“So what are we making?” Gerry prompts you energetically. Of course, you’re the one with the idea. 

“Erm--soup. Chicken noodle soup,” you mutter. “At least--that was what I thought I’d be able to handle making without burning anything.”

“Mmm,” Gerry hums in a pleasant tone. “That sounds delicious.” 

“Yeah…” you trail off. Although you felt a bit of meager confidence when you were alone, Gerry’s skill at cooking makes you shrink into yourself. You feel foolish for your lack of skills. You wish you could just sit back and let Gerry take the lead. 

Gerry seems to realize this and prompts you to act. “Why don’t you grab the chicken out and start cutting it into 1 inch chunks, and I’ll put some water on to boil.”

You nod and focus on your task, sure that you can complete the single activity with at least pretend ease. It turns out to be a little harder than you remember it being, but you persevere nonetheless. You start to feel proud of your work as the pile of butchered meat slowly grows before you. Even the grotesqueness of it gives you an obscene calmness--you always like looking at gross stuff. 

Gerry deftly spots the moment you finish with your chicken-cutting task and slides your cutting board from you, dropping the chicken into a hot pan of oil. He gives you some long, vividly orange carrots to chop. 

You smile softly at the way he anticipates your actions. A warmth flushes in your chest, but this time it is a gentle, happy kind of warmth, not a fiery, fussy one. You wonder when Gerry learned how to take care of someone so well. 

“Don’t cut these too big, okay?” he says, hovering close behind your back. “I want them to cook fast. I’m starving.” 

Your stomach does a little flip at the way he emphasizes the word “starving”, like he was desperate for it. You file the feeling away in the back of your mind so you can process it later.

The two of you work in a quiet, comfortable tandem. It reminds you of the days when you would work on a case together in the archives, each of you seamlessly pulling bits of knowledge out of stuffy books to share with each other. Of course, that was only after you stopped competing against each other for Gertrude’s approval. You used to have a way of pushing each other to work harder, though it was to the detriment of your friendship. You’re quite sure it was the competition to see who would bring Gertrude the most useful follow-up research that caused you and Gerry to both become such good archival assistants. Now that you’re both older, it’s easy to forget how terrible your lives were at that time… 

The soup took longer than you anticipated to cook, but at the end it’s a sight to behold, and the smell... it is impeccable. You feel a little bit of pride for choosing this to be the food you feed to Gerry. Even though Gerry may have done a bit more of the work, he still lets you pretend like it’s your thing, and he watches you ladle big spoonfuls into a pretty patterned ceramic bowl and hand it to him. 

“Thank you, Jon,” Gerry says, beaming at you through the steam of his bowl. Gerry doesn’t mention any of the worries on your mind: that the dish is too boring or it wasn’t ready when he arrived home or that you gave him a bowl that was much larger than yours. He just looks happy and warm and fixated on the hefty bowl in his hands.

“Do you… want to sit in the living room?” you ask hesitantly, even though you don't usually eat in the living room. You just feel compelled to say it because you think maybe that’s something normal, social people do. They eat their food with the TV on and socialize instead of quietly reading nonfiction. 

Gerry agrees, and you wind up sitting close to each other on your small, old couch. There’s usually only you sitting in your living room, so your couch is more of a loveseat, and you’re forced to sit closer to Gerry than is convenient to maintaining your dignity. You think about suggesting the new deep ocean documentary you’ve been meaning to watch, but Gerry quickly selects some indie horror film that he typed into search. 

“I’m very into this right now,” Gerry says, gesturing to the dark screen emitting a haunting note. You wiggle into the couch and commit to at least try to enjoy the movie. You hate how sticky your clammy palms feel, and you rub them obsessively against your pants.

Despite Gerry’s proclaimed interest in the film, he seems pretty distracted. His eyes frequently roam from the screen. He keeps a steady pace on his hearty bowl of soup, and you eventually start to see in him what you might guess is fatigue. And… relaxation?

You realize that Gerry looks relaxed, downright cozy in your lonely living room. You’re filled with joy and love and a hundred happy little feelings that make you choke back tears because you haven’t felt them in so long. And you can’t stop thinking about how it all reminds you of Martin, even though Gerry is the one sitting here with you.

You don’t realize you’re watching Gerry instead of the movie until he slides his eyes onto you. You try to pinpoint his expression. As much as the memories of your past time together fill your mind, you realize there’s a lot you don’t know about Gerry Keay. Most of all, you have no idea what he’s thinking anymore. And you have no idea what he’s been through.

“You look tired,” you say, pulling your feet up on the couch for comfort. 

“So do you,” Gerry says. He turns his body towards you a little, maneuvering in the small seat that he is certainly too large for. Being in the presence of his largeness makes you feel especially small. It’s a good feeling, one of safety, like he could protect you from anything. 

You quietly watch Gerry eat his soup, having already eaten more than enough to sate yourself. You guess maybe you are tired. You’ve comfortably sunken into the cushions of the couch. You feel good having contributed something to your quaint meal. 

Gerry gifts you another one of his glowing, radiant smiles. “The soup is amazing,” he says, taking a satisfactory slurp. Gerry’s smile is something that is quickly growing on you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Your comments are what inspire me to keep writing this! Stay tuned.


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